In the Great Hall, the massive oak doors swung open under the combined strength of the soldiers, revealing the Iron Throne—the symbol of supreme power across the Seven Kingdoms—to the assembled nobles of the Reach and the Stormlands. Twisted and jagged, its barbed edges glimmered coldly in the dim light. The throne stood empty.
The hall was silent, save for the sound of their breathing and the faint scrape of armor. Cersei and the others appeared to have fled; Renly's men had found no trace of them in the Red Keep.
Renly's gaze locked on the Iron Throne, his breath quick and uneven. He strode forward, climbing the steps one by one until he stood before the monstrous seat forged from a thousand blades. Without hesitation, he turned to face the nobles, knights, and soldiers of the Stormlands and the Reach gathered below—then sat down.
A soft tearing sound echoed. A sharp blade jutting from the Iron Throne sliced easily into his hand. A sting of pain flared, and warm blood welled from the cut. Renly's body tensed ever so slightly.
This damned chair. It would always remind whoever sat upon it that power came with pain and betrayal. But that sting only stoked the fire of conquest within him. Compared to the throne beneath him, this blood was nothing.
He lifted his head, a smile spreading across his face.
"My loyal vassals! The Lannister traitors have fled with their tails between their legs! They have abandoned King's Landing, forsaken their false rule! This city—this Iron Throne—once again belongs to the Baratheons, to us, to justice!"
"Long live His Grace Renly!"
"Long live House Baratheon!"
Emmon, clad in yellow, was the first to kneel, his voice trembling with excitement. Then the nobles of the Stormlands and the Reach, along with ranks of knights and soldiers, dropped to their knees like a surging tide. Their fervent cries echoed through the vast hall, rising and falling in waves.
Seated on the Iron Throne, Renly listened with satisfaction to the thunderous shouts of loyalty below. He had won. The Iron Throne was his. He couldn't help but laugh—a loud, clear, triumphant laugh.
When the laughter faded, his voice still carried a thrill of victory.
"Emmon, bring Queen Margaery to the Red Keep. She is the true mistress of this place."
Emmon bowed and hurried out.
Renly's gaze swept over the other nobles.
"Also, hunt down Tyrion Lannister, Cersei Lannister, her bastard, and every last Lannister survivor. Search every corner until they are found. I will have them stand trial before the Iron Throne."
He paused, then continued, "Now, let us discuss the Small Council. The realm must resume order at once—"
"Your Grace!"
A sudden voice cut through the hall, halting Renly's words. Every gaze turned toward the speaker.
It was Ser Parmen Crane "the Purple", standing at the front of the Stormlands' ranks, his expression grave.
Renly was interrupted, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. Yet when he saw Parmen Crane, his expression quickly smoothed.
"Ser Parmen, what counsel do you offer?"
Ser Parmen's voice rang out loud and clear. "Your Grace, it is unseemly to speak of such foul matters at this sacred moment of your coronation. Yet for the stability of the realm and the safety of your throne, I must risk my life to warn you—there is a traitor within our ranks! Someone has secretly colluded with Tywin Lannister, plotting to strike from within while Your Grace is still securing your rule!"
"Buzz—!"
The Great Hall erupted in an instant.
"What?!"
"Traitors?!"
"Who?!"
The nobles exchanged startled glances, whispers rising like a surging tide. The joy of victory that had filled the hall moments before was replaced at once by suspicion and fear.
The smile vanished completely from Renly's face. His eyes narrowed as his gaze swept across every noble below. The faces of Lord Orton and several others turned grim.
Renly's voice was cold as ice. "Ser, accusations require evidence. You know the consequences of slandering the realm's lords with baseless words."
Ser Parmen's tone did not waver. "The evidence lies within this hall—within the hearts of these hypocrites! Lord Orton Merryweather, and you, Lord Caswell, and... you! You are all Tywin Lannister's spies planted among us!"
In one breath, he pointed to dozens of men.
Lord Orton Merryweather, named among them, turned deathly pale.
"You... you're making baseless accusations! What proof do you have?!"
Lord Orton stepped forward sharply, his voice trembling.
Ser Parmen sneered and calmly drew a rolled parchment from his robe, holding it high. "Then, my lord Orton, please explain what this is. This is a personal letter from Tywin Lannister. It clearly states that if you cause chaos when His Grace Renly enters the city—or assassinate him once he's inside the Red Keep—the Lannisters will reward you with castles and lands. It even bears your family seal and the secret code of your agreement!"
He suddenly unfurled the parchment, displaying it to the crowd.
The color drained from Lord Orton's face. His lips trembled as despair filled his eyes. He had never imagined that his letter would fall into Parmen Crane's hands.
Clutching at the last thread of hope, Lord Orton spat bitterly, "You're not innocent either! You're part of it! You're trying to drag us all down to save yourself!"
"Hahaha!"
Ser Parmen burst into loud laughter. "Well said, Lord Orton. But alas, I was always His Grace's man. My loyalty to Tywin was a ruse—to lure the snake from its hole and expose the traitors hidden among us!"
The Great Hall fell deathly silent.
All eyes turned toward Renly.
Seated upon the Iron Throne, Renly gazed down at the kneeling Ser Parmen, then looked to the ashen-faced Orton and his men. His lips curved coldly.
"Ser Parmen, you have done well. Your loyalty shall be remembered by the realm."
His gaze shifted toward Orton Merryweather and the others.
"As for you... seize them at once! Lock them in the black cells and keep them under heavy guard."
The guards leapt forward like wolves, roughly dragging away the wailing, pleading Orton and his companions.
The hall fell into utter silence.
...
Meanwhile, in the sewers beneath King's Landing, several figures moved through the darkness.
A group of children, around ten years old, led the way. Behind them followed more than a dozen men wearing dark brown cloaks of the Pyromancers.
"This way! Almost there!"
One of the children pointed toward a side tunnel.
Before long, they emerged through an outlet onto a rocky shore. The place resembled a crude dock, where a medium-sized flat-bottomed sloop lay quietly moored on the water.
As they boarded, a figure in a black cloak—clearly the leader—immediately asked, "Well? Did you handle it?"
A taller Pyromancer pushed back his hood slightly, revealing a face weary but tinged with excitement. "Done. As His Grace commanded, beneath the Red Keep, we placed candles beside the wildfire jars hidden since the Mad King's reign. By our reckoning, it won't be long before something happens."
The leader nodded, seeming to relax, but then frowned. He noticed that the Pyromancer's expression carried not relief, but unease.
"What is it? Something wrong?" he pressed sharply.
The Pyromancer hesitated, guilt flickering in his eyes. "It's just... something felt off. When we searched for the Mad King's hidden stores down there, we found things far more complicated than we expected."
The black-clad leader's gaze sharpened. "Explain yourself."
...
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